And kisses are a better fate than wisdom
by forthegenuine
Summary: "Molly," he cleared his throat. "We're needed at a crime scene in Southwark." "'We?" "Can't go like this," gesturing helplessly to his temporary injury.


**A/N** : Hello! Happy new _Sherlock_ days! I've had this in the works for over a year now, so I thought I'd finish it before the new series airs and blows multiple holes through all my headcannons. It has not been beta'd so all mistakes, I take as my own. (Actually pretty sure one is not supposed to cover up a cornea injury, but work with me here...) The title is, once again, courtesy of e.e. cummings. Borrowed heavily from ACD's "Adventure of Silver Blaze," and shamelessly from _Deathly Hallows_.

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"Well, you've done it, mate. You've fulfilled your childhood dream of becoming a pirate." With a poorly obscured smirk, John Watson amended, "Or at least now you look like one." He stepped back to admire his own handiwork.

Sherlock Holmes made a mental note to ask his friend in future, how he came to know about his youthful marauding inclinations, though he already strongly suspected that Mycroft might be the leak. For now, he was too busy being vexed. He only hoped that his left eye was adequate in conveying a scathing glower at the good doctor, now that he had placed an eye patch over Sherlock's right one.

Sitting in his friend's surgery, he couldn't decide which he found more annoying: John and Mary's initial worry, and subsequent admonition, for his carelessly neglecting to put on safety goggles this one instance. (And it was just his luck that this particularly dangerous experiment went awry, injuring his cornea.) Or, that once a healthy prognosis revealed that his vision would return fully after a few days, the Watsons were now barely able to contain shared giggles, at the expense of Sherlock's appearance.

Without his consent––though he only protested weakly––it was decided that Sherlock was to be delivered to St. Bart's and watched over by Molly Hooper, while the Watsons take little Rosie to her doctor's appointment. His reflexive indignation that John and Mary felt he needed a caretaker gave way to resignation. After all, the lab could prove a useful diversion from his infirmary. That he would also be just down the hallway from a certain specialist registrar, said the voice inside his head he often tried to quell, well that was simply an added bonus.

A pout remained on Sherlock's face as John, with barely concealed glee, explained the circumstances to Molly. He looked over at her from the corner of an eye––not that his eye patch gave him a choice––and was inwardly grateful to find genuine concern written on her face. And because his peripheral vision was impeded at the moment, he missed the look of conjugal mischief that passed between the Watsons before they bid goodbye to their adult charge.

Sherlock busied himself, staying mostly out of Molly's hair, by working on his latest treatise, an analysis of soil and ground composition of the Greater London area. In the afternoon, a text from Lestrade illuminated the screen of his mobile. He made his way down the hall shortly and entered the morgue, where Molly was in the middle of a post-mortem, elbow deep in Fitzroy Simpson's lung cavity.

Sherlock froze for a moment to consider there was something morbidly transfixing watching Molly in her craft, that for some untold reason, he could not yet bring himself to interrupt the concentration on her face and cease the movements of her limbs. He felt his heart beat a little faster when a stray thought formed in his mind, of what other movements her limbs might be capable of. He nearly exclaimed when a buzz emitted from inside his coat pocket, next to his offending and traitorous heart. Another text from Lestrade. Oh right. A case.

"Molly," he cleared his throat. "We're needed at a crime scene in Southwark."

"'We'?"

"Can't go like this," gesturing helplessly to his temporary injury. The tone in his voice achieved a surprisingly appropriate balance of keenness and pity. "I'll clear it with Mike. Let me give you a few minutes." He turned sharply at his heels in the usual manner of his exiting a room, with the flourish of his coat swishing behind him. But this time, Molly heard a dull thud, followed by an "Ow! For god's––" cursed under his breath.

She stared after him while he walked down the corridor gingerly rubbing his temple. Molly shook her head slightly and felt her lips quirking upwards, and decided she would hate to be responsible for Sherlock augmenting his injuries. Besides, she reasoned, as she instructed an intern to put her patient away for the day, Mr. Simpson would still be there the next morning.

 _shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

When they arrived at the address, Sherlock and Molly were welcomed, not by the detective inspector, but by a Cocker Spaniel-poodle mix who barked ferociously at the newcomers, and with every loud yelp seemed to rebel against the saccharine name her owners chose for her, Sugar. A constable, whose job apparently it was to restrain the creature, cornered the dog and placed her in a penned area of the kitchen with a consolatory doggie treat.

Lestrade emerged from the living room, ducking under the yellow caution tape that lined the doorway. "There you are," he greeted the two.

If he was surprised that Molly had accompanied Sherlock on his investigation, Lestrade did not let it show, for he acknowledged her with a friendly smile and a familiar nod. But in an almost cartoonish manner, he did a double-take of the detective. "What's with the…?" he queried, drawing an imaginary circle with a pointer finger around his own eye.

Molly shook her head gravely, indicating that this was a subject best left ignored, and Greg's question trailed without a response.

Sherlock let out an aggrieved sigh, rolling his functional eye. Lestrade, appreciatively, proceeded to recount Scotland Yard's version of the previous night's series of events, while Molly took out a pen and her Moleskine, and began taking notes.

Somewhere in the middle of Lestrade's wild and erroneous theory that the perpetrator of the crime might be the elusive serial burglar, Sherlock found himself unable to focus on the case. His interest was tempted by the woman beside him, and his gaze lingered a little longer than it should on the way Molly chewed her lower lip when she wrote. He forced himself not to notice the sanguine nod of her head, how her eyebrows bent together in a delicate crease, and the way her hair draped over her shoulder from her ponytail, as Lestrade continued to prattle on about the lineup of other possible suspects––including the boyfriend, the cousin, the other cousin, the dog walker, and the landlord––in the background.

"Hang on." Lestrade stopped speaking, while Sherlock became aware that his mouth was slightly agape. Both men gave their attention to Molly, who had been silent during the briefing. "You said the neighbours didn't report any noise from the flat?"

"Yes."

"No noise at all?"

"None."

She did not respond, but instead, walked between the two men to stand in front of the kitchen's entrance. As soon as she came into Sugar's line of sight, the dog began barking loudly once more.

Above the incessant din of Sugar's barking, a baffled Lestrade wondered, "Is there something I'm missing?"

"Yes," answered Molly. She gave Sugar a treat and scratched her head to placate her, before walking back toward the two detectives. "The strange event involving the dog last night."

Lestrade scratched his head. "The dog didn't do anything last night."

She tried to keep a smile from forming on her lips, lest she step into the bounds of being indecorous, but the twinkle in her eyes betrayed her glee. With her chin tilted slightly upward, as if balancing a tiny ball on her nose, she announced triumphantly, "That's what's strange about it." She directed a knowing look at Sherlock––eyes wide, eyebrows raised, expectant––a look that could only be described as a 'we both know what's really going on here' face.

Sherlock stared at Molly, willing his brain cells to catch up––the dog didn't bark last night, so that must mean…

"Oh!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms up in excitement. "That's brilliant, Molly!" And with this proclamation, he surprised everyone in the room––most of all himself––when he closed the gap between Molly and himself. Though his field of vision was reduced by half, it did not prevent him from taking her face between both of his hands, and placing a kiss squarely and perfectly on Molly's lips.

Before he could draw back and apologize for being so brazen, there was a clatter of the pen and notepad as they fell out of Molly's hands. They were busy tugging at the lapels of his coat, pulling him down for another, deeper kiss, more fully on the mouth. He responded with such ardour that he drew his arms around her body to embrace her completely, walking her backward a few steps, like a poorly choreographed waltz.

Lestrade stood for a number of seconds before finally interrupting, "Oi! The case?"

The couple disengaged, not daring to look Lestrade in the eye. Molly, who surreptitiously hid the blush creeping up her cheeks, busied herself by collecting her belongings. If she had looked up, she would have found Sherlock's inability to form actual words amusing, his mouth having gone rather dry for some reason. When he replied, his voice sounded hoarse, "Erm, right, Gareth––"

"Greg."

"Greg," he parroted, as he straightened himself and his coat. He cleared his throat, trying to sound as normal as possible, but failing immensely. "It-uh… it was the dog walker." Turning to leave, his hand automatically flew to the small of Molly's back. She threw a quick wave 'bye' at Greg, simultaneously with his, "Good day," and they both walked out of the flat onto the nearly empty street.

They stood on the pavement facing the road without speaking for some moments, neither of them sure how to proceed. It was Molly who broke the silence first, "Well." She said cautiously, testing the waters of this yet unknown territory. "Thank you for letting me be your seeing-eye pathologist."

"Thank you for letting me be your blind detective." _Oh god_ , he winced _._ Did he just say that out loud?

To his great relief, Molly let out a giggle. Sherlock let out a small laugh of his own and grinned at her.

The inherent irony, which did not escape him entirely, in how the day––and surely, from this moment on––transpired would have to be pondered at at another time. Hindsight, and all that. For now, through his viable eye, he could not help but admire the blush that now rested on the apples of her cheeks that gave her a warm glow. He reached down and took her hand in his. She gave his hand a squeeze in return.

"Dinner?" he asked.

Her smile widened. "I'd love to."

 _ **end**_

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Feedback, as always, is greatly appreciated. Happy Holidays! Cheers!


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